by Davis Bunn
He turned petulant. “Then why have you dragged me away from the floor?”
“The deal is exactly what I said. When I decide to sell, you have the right to match any offer.”
“In exchange for?”
“You tell me what I have here. And you keep it absolutely quiet.”
He tried to pretend no interest in what lay beneath her hand and her jacket. But he could not keep his gaze from dropping, or erase the avarice gleam. “You’re asking for a professional valuation?”
“I don’t care what it’s worth. Well, I care. Sure. But it’s not for sale.”
“My dear Storm. First rule of a dealer. Everything is for sale.”
“You’ll hold this in utter confidence?”
“Not a peep. Now do be kind enough to remove your hand.”
She pulled away her jacket.
“Oh, I say.” His eagerness was such that his hands shook as he pulled a pair of white cloth gloves from his pocket. Most curators and high-end dealers carried them as naturally as they did their wallets. Curtis ran his gloved hands over the leather cover.
“Tell me what you see.”
“Well, obviously it’s a chain book. Press here, yes, feel the holes where the spine was originally bound to an iron bar.”
Chain books were named after the manner in which a palace or monastery kept its prized manuscripts from disappearing. A chain ran from the iron plate in the book’s spine to a hook attached to the stone floor. The practice began in the late Dark Ages and continued until Gutenberg’s printing press made books more readily available.
Curtis opened the book and breathed, “This is quite unique.”
“Why?”
“It’s a Gospel of John, which was all the vogue during the Middle Ages. But see here, the facing pages give the readings in Latin and in Greek. Which means it would have originated from somewhere that refused to show strict allegiance to either Rome or Constantinople. After the eighth century, when the Ottoman Saracens attacked the eastern church, such places grew increasingly rare.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Hard to say, really.” He turned the page. “My dear sweet word. You realize of course this was done for royalty. Such a pity monasteries refused to sign their name to these illuminated works. Claiming authorship was considered an earthly vice, approaching pride. But see here, the gold leaf was literally hammered into the vellum. And this blue, it’s positively electric. Crushed sapphires, most likely.”
“Curtis.”
“Eh? Oh, its origins. Hard to say, really.”
“Istanbul?”
He lifted his gaze. “Why on earth would you think that?”
She hesitated, then decided to entrust him with that much. “Sean was planning to travel there.”
“Ah. I see. Well, if you want my opinion I’d say his journey would have been utterly futile. By the eighth century all the monasteries around Constantinople were either demolished or turned to mosques. And this quality was not known before the ninth century.” His gaze dropped back to the book. He turned another page. Breathed another fascinated sigh. “Armenia, now, there’s a thought. The Caucasus region had several churches that remained strictly in the Roman camp, while retaining the Greek rites…” He squinted over the page. “Hold on a tick.”
“What’s the matter?”
He traced one gloved finger down the page’s outer edge. “That’s not possible.”
“Tell me, Curtis.”
He shut the book and seemed to gather himself. Then he opened the front cover, gripped the pages by the top and bottom, and slowly, cautiously, peeled back the pages. Gradually a narrow pyramid was formed of the outer edges.
Bringing a new picture into view.
“Well, we can safely date this.” His words emerged somewhat breathlessly. “The first half of the tenth century at the very earliest.”
“What is that?”
The image cascaded down the book’s outer edge, visible only when the pages were held as Curtis did now, angled and pinching them tightly together. “What we have here is a very early example of a fore-edged book. They became quite the rage in the Georgian era, late seventeen hundreds. Manuscripts as early as this have been found from time to time. But they are exceedingly rare.”
The image was in black and white, an etching of remarkable clarity yet done in the two-dimensional style of medieval artistry. “I say, it appears to be the arch of Titus.” Curtis leaned in closer. “Yes, I’m quite certain of it. See the menorah here? How astonishing.”
“Why is that a surprise?”
“Well, traditionally a holy text would have a biblical scene for a fore-edged decoration. This is quite the opposite. Titus built this triumphant arch in Rome to signify his destruction of Jerusalem and the crushing of the Jewish revolt. You’ve heard of this, surely.”
“Of course.” She lifted the camera. “Turn the image toward me.”
Curtis did as she instructed. “In AD 66 the Jews revolted against their Roman masters. They had several resounding victories. They even managed to rule Jerusalem for a time. Then Vespasian and his son Titus arrived, along with the African legions, and crushed the revolt in a most brutal fashion. Eventually Vespasian returned to Rome to be crowned Caesar, leaving his son to finish the siege of Jerusalem. Titus destroyed every structure in the city, stone from stone, then salted the earth.
“So to have a fore-edged illustration of the arch…”
“Quite unheard of. If I had not seen it for myself I would call it a fraud. You can now safely rule out Armenia as a source. They did no fore-edged illustrations. Somewhere in the Mediterranean basin is my guess.” He stiffened. “Wait a tic.”
“What is it now?”
“I just want to check something.” He closed the book and turned it over. “Occasionally a text will have a second image etched into the reverse edge. Only the most valuable books, mind, which this most certainly is.”
He carefully tilted the pages, and another illustration of an arch came into view. “How decidedly odd.”
His movements became swifter as he shut the book, reversed directions, and again fanned the image into view. “Yes, I’m quite certain. This first one is the Titus arch. Whenever a general marched in triumphant entry into Rome, their last prize was always the vanquished nation’s temple gods. But the Jewish temple had no such image, of course. So instead the Titus arch shows a soldier carrying the Torah scrolls. See here, the menorah, the fire basin, these carvings are a record of the treasures Titus stole from the temple and brought back to dedicate to the temple of his own Roman god, Jupiter. A more horrid desecration the Jews could not have imagined.”
Curtis reversed the book once more. “Now here…”
“No scrolls.” Storm leaned in tight. “Different images.”
“I am at a complete and utter loss.”
“A second arch?”
“I am quite certain there has never been any mention of such.” He released his hold on the pages and set a proprietary glove on the cover. “You really must let me have this book.”
“Sorry, it’s not for sale.”
“Oh, fiddle. I know perfectly well what you’re up to. It’s how I made my own start. You intend to take over Syrrell’s defunct Palm Beach office and use the painting to establish your name.” He prodded the leather cover with a gloved finger. “But one painting, no matter how glorious, does not make a collection. You need capital. However much you’re earning from the sale of that Dürer, it won’t be enough.”
“Hold the edges so I can photograph this second image.”
When she finished, she found Curtis staring at her oddly. “Was Sean killed over this?”
“I’m trying to find that out. Remember what you promised.”
“Not a whisper. I wouldn’t want to have a hand in your demise.” He watched her shut the book and wrap her jacket around it. “You will take care, won’t you? At least until I have my hands on these exquisite articles.”
S
IXTEEN
THE CROWDS CLOGGED STORM’S BOOTH until the final bell. The same stallholders who had dismissed her with smirks and snide sympathy stopped by, purchased items, and invited her to closing receptions reserved for insiders only. They discussed the coming season of art shows—New York, Basel, Munich, Paris, Stockholm, Santa Barbara. They spoke of future alliances with this young woman who had endured the phoenix flames and now rose on wings as brilliant as Dürer’s brushstrokes.
If Storm had not still been facing the day’s hardest task, she might even have enjoyed the attention.
The same bonded shippers she had used to clear out the shop packed all her remaining items except one. She departed the instant they finished. Every dealer and employee within range stopped what they were doing and watched her carry the painting down the side passage and out the main doors. Were she faced with anything other than the chore ahead, she would have counted it as a fine hour indeed.
The bank was closed for the day, but the manager was there to greet her. He personally led her downstairs, where the guard gave her an overtime smile, accepted her key, and unlocked the safety-deposit box. Storm stowed the painting and took a moment to survey her grandfather’s parting legacy. She slipped six bound bundles of cash in her purse beside Sean’s tattered Bible, shut and locked the vault, then returned upstairs.
The female agent was stationed by the bank’s entrance, as impassive as she had been all day long. Storm steeled herself against what loomed ahead and said, “I need to make one more stop.”
While much of western Palm Beach County slithered into gangland chaos, Lake Osborne remained a stubborn enclave of middle-class stability. Generations of New England plumbers and shopkeepers slipped in unnoticed by the barrier-island rich. They lived the same lives here as farther north—quiet, respectable, conservative, fanatic about safety, active in their adopted community. The lake itself was rimmed by parks and fifty-year-old palms. A new generation of grey heads walked their dogs and played chess in the cooling dusk. But the fiercely stubborn calm remained. As a young girl, Storm had felt frozen inside someone else’s idea of a good time. Now she would have admired them, were it any other hour than this.
The artists’ colony had been formed a century earlier, when Flagler’s castle had dominated the eastern skyline. The clapboard cottages formed a bizarre New England enclave surrounded by bougainvillea. The roads twisted upon themselves, designed to maintain an isolated decorum.
Storm had spent a sleepless night planning this moment. But when the unkempt lawn at the end of the cul-de-sac came into view, she knew she would never be truly prepared. “Would you turn on your siren?”
The stocky agent slowed the car and swiveled in his seat. “Excuse me?”
“I need…” Storm’s swallow sounded choked in her ears. “Just do it. Please.”
The driver glanced at the agent seated beside him. She shrugged her reply.
Storm added, “And your lights.”
They traversed the final half mile at the pace and volume of a marching band. When they pulled up in front of the house and the sound faded, Storm rolled down her window and listened.
The female agent asked, “Are you intending to go inside?”
“I have to.”
“Is there a crime in progress?”
“I don’t…” Then she heard the faint grinding noise. Storm opened her door. “I’ll be right back.”
“I need to check the place out before you—”
“Wait here!”
Storm stalled momentarily where the cobblestone lip of the drive met the road. She had not been back since the day she had started work for Syrrell’s. The day her father had thrown her out of the house, accusing her of making disownment a family trait.
Thunderclouds clogged the eastern sky and rumbled a traditional Florida greeting as she hurried up the drive. Dark trailers streamed over the intracoastal waters. The humidity and heat made a drenching mix. She climbed the front steps and recalled steaming August days seated where she now stood, dreaming of life in some frigid mountainous land. At twelve she had started a correspondence course in Norwegian and filled out online au pair applications, inflating her age by half. The next year she met Claudia and everything changed. She had not thought of Norway in years.
She used her key and opened the door. The sweet stench of old smoke burned her throat. The grinding sound was much louder now.
Storm raced down the central corridor. The house had two safes. The massive lockbox in the garage held her father’s stash. Her father liked to claim that he did not deal drugs. He merely shared the wealth with a few close friends. Storm entered her father’s bedroom with its quasi-Moroccan motif and flung back the carpet. She pried loose the floor tile, revealing the second safe, the one she wasn’t supposed to know about. Her heart skipped a frantic beat as she spun the dial. If he had changed the combination all was lost.
The safe popped open. Storm clawed through the jumbled contents, mostly his collection of antique North African bongs. She froze when her fingers touched the worn silver picture frame, the reason she had often returned to this safe as a child. The frame held the only photograph she had ever seen of her mother, who had died when Storm was two years old. She fought off a sudden craving to take the picture with her. She had argued over this all night long. But the photograph was not hers. And what she sought was definitely not her father’s. In the middle of the restless night, her logic had carried a lot more force than now. But there was not time for further argument. She pushed the photograph to one side and dug further.
When her hand touched the old velvet pouch nestled at the bottom of the safe, she groaned aloud.
Storm pulled out the pouch and forced her trembling fingers to untie the leather drawstring. She had to be certain her memory was correct. She drew out the contents, opened the opposing sleeves, and groaned a second time.
The word triptych came from Greek, meaning threefold. The art-form was based on the ancient Roman writing tablet, which had two hinged panels flanking a central display. Triptychs varied in size, from pendant jewelry to giant altar pieces. In this case, the three interlocking panels were each the size of her hand, peaked at the top like arabesque doors, and carved from ivory.
The triptych was the one her father had stolen from Sean.
It was also the one in Dürer’s portrait.
Storm traced the central panel’s carved face, marveling at the mystery unfolding before her eyes.
Then the grinding noise abruptly stopped.
Storm locked the safe, slipped the tile back into place, straightened the carpet, stowed the triptych in her purse, and raced back to the living room.
Her voice was breathlessly fractured as she called, “It’s only me, Dad. Everything’s cool.”
The garage door opened and her father stepped into view. “You brought the cops here?”
“They’re my escort.”
“They’re not here for me?”
“No, Dad. We’ve had some trouble…at the office. They’re just watching out for me.”
Joseph Syrrell wore a heavily embroidered caftan belted at the waist, which was good for another bitter memory. For years Joseph and his artist friends had talked of buying a house in Marrakech. They had made it as far as a meeting with international Realtors in Miami before everything dissolved into their usual squabbling.
When Joseph waved his arms, the caftan’s sleeves flapped like empty wings. “I just dropped five hundred tabs of Cotton down the drain!”
For a woman who had never taken anything stronger than aspirin, Storm was amazingly mindful of drug lingo. Cotton was slang for oxycontin, a synthetic morphine. Also known as Oxy. Big O. Or the one she loved most. Killer. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
He stared at the rear door. Next to the garage lockbox was a sink with an industrial-strength garbage disposal. “That stuff cost me two thousand bucks.”
In three years Joseph Syrrell had put on forty pounds. His beard only partly hid the flesh cr
easing his jaw and neck. When he faced her full on, his jaw melted into the hair rising from the caftan’s opening. He turned and studied her. Storm wore a pinstripe Lanvin suit she had bought on sale at Off Fifth. He smirked. “The old man’s sure got his claws in deep.”
“I came to tell you that Sean is dead.”
Her father actually smirked. “This is supposed to mean something to me?”
She turned for the door, her duty here done. “The funeral is tomorrow. We’re flying up in the morning. If you want to come, I’ll pay for your ticket.”
Storm shut the front door on her father demanding, “Why should I care what’s happened to that old man?”
SEVENTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, HARRY’S SLEEP ended with a razor-sharp break. He flashed to awareness, rolled off the bed, and moved to the window in a crouch. The predawn hour was a faint grey splash, the church buildings and surrounding gardens utterly still. But Harry’s internal alarms were shrieking. He swiped at his face and rose from the bed. One look out the window was enough to tell him what was wrong.
He crossed the room and knocked on the connecting door. “Storm?”
When he had gone to bed she had still been hard at it, seated at the pastor’s desk, hammering away at the computer. The lady agent stationed in a chair opposite Storm had looked beyond weary. Storm had been terse with him, her attitude a closed door. He’d told them both good night and gotten nothing but the tapping of keys in reply.
Only now the federal agents were gone.
Harry rapped on the door a second time. Through the paper-thin walls Harry heard a muffled groan. He opened the door and said, “Get up.”
“What time is it?” Storm’s hand emerged from the covers, fumbled around the bedside table, found her watch, pulled it back under the pillow. “Our plane’s not until nine.”
He returned to his own bed, slipped his hand under the mattress, and came out with his Browning. The previous evening he’d asked Emma to drive him by the apartment. The day’s events had left Harry’s hand aching for the comfort of a serrated grip.
